


Pour out to the murmuring of the waves

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Affection, Books, Friendship/Love, Gen, Intimacy, Love Confessions, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Poetry, Pre-Canon, Reading, Tattoos, Tenderness, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:42:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22564204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: He hears the words, like love, like coming home. And he belongs here. Here, in the sea, in between the wind and the beat of his heart. And the sea trembles within him. And it speaks for him. And he wants to tell him.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Pour out to the murmuring of the waves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CousinShelley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinShelley/gifts).



> The title is taken from Francesco Petrarca's sestina [Non à tanti animali il mar fra l’onde](http://www3.cpdl.org/wiki/index.php/Non_a_tanti_animali_il_mar_fra_l'onde), which is also mentioned in the story.

_Is this the kiss like no other before?_  
_To tender_  
_Surrender_  
_And pray for more?_  
_Do I feel the sky fall into me_  
_Hear the echoes of eternity?_  
_You placed your kiss upon my lips_  
_And cast adrift a thousand ships_

\- James Grant: [Is this the kiss](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-0SOlgibuRc).

*

They sail on a strange, new side of the sea. The water is restless, but somehow it feels safe, safe and comfortable, here in this small space they live in, him and John and all the books. And he wants to have the words, he wants to write it down. He wants to remember.

He is glad for every single new word he learns. But they are nothing compared to learning something new about John. Many of the sailors have ink drawings on them, so Harry isn't too surprised to see that John does, too. He first sees it on a warm evening, after they've been reading for hours, when John rolls up his sleeves and rubs his eyes and points at another word in his book.

Yet another word, and, in time, Harry will learn it. But he'd rather learn _this_ , the way John's fingers dance, the way his pulse gathers at his wrist and sounds almost like music to him, the way the symbol in dark ink looks almost magical, almost alive. He finds it beautiful. Of course he does. Every small, new thing he learns about John is something to treasure, something to hold, deep within his heart, like a secret. Something to love, in this quiet, tender way of his. Something to keep.

One of the other sailors here on the Beagle does drawings with ink, and Harry is almost tempted to go to him and ask him to copy the symbol on him, right on the very same place. But something stops him. It's John's symbol. It's _him_. It doesn't belong to Harry, not yet. Its meaning feels like something he must earn. Something he must find.

And he does. He finds it, one day, in one of John's old and beloved poetry books. They are reading a poem that seems to be about the sun and the sea and many other things, but it also seems to be about love. It seems to be about home. And he says so. He reads and he stumbles over the words, but he says so, like an offering.

And John looks at him, and he doesn't say anything, but he holds the book close, and his hands are hopeful and kind. And he doesn't say _Yes, my love_ , but he might as well had, because his eyes are soft, and Harry _knows_. He hears the words, like love, like coming home. And he belongs here. Here, in the sea, in between the wind and the beat of his heart. And the sea trembles within him. And it speaks for him. And he wants to tell him.

He finds John's hand, like a beacon in the night, and his heart beats like a wild bird. And John holds him close, and he doesn't let go, and his heartbeat speaks in poetry, in the language of the sea. And over the years, he learns it well by heart. He traces it, with his shy, trembling fingers, and then with his mouth. He says it, over and over, this prayer, this secret, faithful code within. And when that stops being enough, he opens his journal. He will learn to draw it. He will keep it forever. He will make it his.

This new world they have sailed to, this new world they have found, _this_ is beautiful. He wants to remember, he wants to remember _him_. He ties this promise to John's wrist, carefully. He ties this tender meaning, this love, tethered to his heart like poetry, like the waves dancing in the wind.


End file.
